Signs of Life
by Zanah1213
Summary: Sherlock has returned to 221B after The Fall and it seems he might have missed someone in his three year endeavor to keep his friends safe. John won't leave his side though, not for a single second, even if there's danger. It's been a while, after all.
1. Chapter 1

When Sherlock finally showed up out of the blue to end what had become a three year separation for one and an endless, monotonous lifestyle for the other, John was convinced it was a dream. He'd had so many dreams about Sherlock coming back as if it was possible that he immediately figured this time was no different. But when he pinched himself, because that's what people do just in case, he found it was suddenly _not _a dream, it was very much _real_.

And Sherlock, who had been standing there uncertainly as John looked at him with an open, chilling calmness, simply watched as that inner calm fell away and John's eyes widened at the realization. He tried to say something that would help but the words, whatever they'd been, got stuck for some reason. He knew John wouldn't listen anyways.

Then John went against all that Sherlock had prepared for -a punch, anger, even denial- by walking unsteadily up to him and pulling him into a tight hug. His body shook against Sherlock's and his hands clutched at the coat on his back while he pressed his face against Sherlock's chest. Words poured out of him then, muffled slightly, but Sherlock listened to each separate word after getting over his initial surprise and wrapping his own arms around John.

"I can _feel _you, this is real. It's not a dream. Sherlock, Sherlock, _Sherlock_. I can't believe it…"

He really could feel it, the beating of Sherlock's heart in his chest, and it convinced him, but not entirely. He needed so much more proof before he'd believe it so he pulled away slightly, blinking away tears that had suddenly sprung up, to grab Sherlock's wrist. He tugged it towards him, a little harsher than intended, and the tiny gasp from Sherlock was real too.

He ignored that also though, his fingers pushing the coat sleeve back eagerly to reveal a wrist that was far too thin. _Ignored. _Pressing his fingers to the bare skin then, he searched for that final proof.

There it was - a pulse, the sign of life John needed.

And his own heartbeat sped up as he stumbled back quickly, because this was Sherlock. He was here, in front of him, and it was impossible, but he was _here_. He came back.

"You're alive," he spluttered, unsure of where to look at with this impossible thing that he didn't understand. The lips, turned down in a frown? The eyebrows creased in what appeared to be worry? The hair that was cut shorter in an almost unrecognizable way? Or maybe the eyes, narrowed and full of immeasurable sadness? He finally chose to look at the ground instead, scared of accidentally looking into the depths of those eyes. He didn't want to drown in them.

"Still prone to stating the obvious, I see," Sherlock offered in what he thought must have been a joking manner, and John looked up swiftly to watch his lips move. He listened, and it hurt as much as it made his heart soar, hearing the once very familiar voice. The laughter he choked out at the statement almost didn't sound like laughter at all.

"Still hurling insults at the idiots then," he stated bluntly in response, trying to inflect as much hurt as possible into the words, to make Sherlock feel exactly what he was feeling. And if that didn't cause some pain for Sherlock, the next move he made definitely did; John drew his arm back and punched him as hard as he could, _because _he could.

His knuckles stung afterward, which only reaffirmed the suspicion that this really was happening, and he watched Sherlock fall back a bit in pain. He secretly hoped there would be a bruise.

"Oh, absolutely _nothing's_ changed," Sherlock said eventually and almost happily, a hand to his cheek and a tentative almost-smile on his face as he looked at the other man. John recognized those words for what they were -his apology for all of it. As if he could just slide seamlessly back into his old life with those simple words uttered. Not likely, John thought, so he frowned.

"Everything's changed, you bloody bastard."

Sherlock looked nonchalant as he shrugged, although internally he was struggling to find the right words. Nothing sounded right to him.

"It's possible to start over, you know." _I'll beg for it John. I have absolutely no qualms with begging now._

_Oh God yes, please, let's do that_. _I want to make this right. _"We can give it a try."

_I lied. Begging was not an option. So thank you._

"From the beginning then."

* * *

><p>For the first week there was barely any talking, it was all constant, gentle touches from one to the other, all meant to be reassuring and nothing more than friend-to-friend. They were treading on new, unfamiliar ground with each other, like two people meeting for the first time. For both of them, it was never anything more than two fingers pressed to Sherlock's wrist again to find that pulse, or a firm hand on John's shoulder as he scrolled listlessly down a Web page, grip tightening occasionally as small, unintelligible comments were made.<p>

In that first week, those small touches said more, _meant _more, than words ever could have because they were both incredibly unsure around each other and they weren't quite ready to talk about it yet. John needed the other man by his side all day, and Sherlock obligingly agreed, although he made the mistake of venturing out of the flat _without_ John at his side on the third day of that first week. It had been to find a _case_, he'd told an upset John later. This was after he'd returned and found him in a near state of panic.

What he didn't tell John was how much that sight scared him.

During the second week, the tension eased up a bit and more words were exchanged. Mrs. Hudson accidentally found out about Sherlock being alive still on the third day of the second week, although later Sherlock made it seem like he'd intended for it to happen. That day was probably the most exciting, with broken pottery and tears galore. By his own request, John made Mrs. Hudson keep the secret from Lestrade and anyone else. He figured he could decide when the general public would know. Instead, he asked her to be a dear and help Sherlock with his 'finding a case' problem. She happily agreed to it.

Why he asked her to keep it a secret though, he found himself wondering about later. There were so many people who deserved to know Sherlock was alive. They'd fought for his reputation and name. John supposed it was because he wanted Sherlock all to himself for as long as possible. He wanted to figure out everything he could before anyone else knew. He didn't care if it seemed selfish; he preferred it that way.

It was on the fourth day of the second week that Sherlock finally got his whole story out to John, who sat next to him with his fingers curled around Sherlock's as he nodded and only half listened. It meant nothing at the time though, the physical contact. It was for John's sake. John, who still licked his lips nervously and who still thought that one day, Sherlock would just get up, leave, and never come back. Sherlock disappearing from the flat for the time he did had scared him senseless. But it hadn't happened again and there were no plans for it, he could tell. He still wanted the constant reassurance though.

Sherlock let this happen. He wanted John to be completely alright with his return. He was impatient, but it was John, who he didn't want to lose again for too many reasons, so he could forget about his own impatience for a while yet.

The third week became the turning point.

It was on the second day when it all began. _Finally_, Mrs. Hudson brought a case to 221B. It was such a little thing though, just something she'd heard about through one of her friends (they had a problem, something about a cousin of a friend disappearing, she hadn't phoned for _days _and they were scared and could John Watson, friend of the deceased Sherlock Holmes pull some sort of miracle out of his sleeve and find her?), and under normal circumstances Sherlock would have refused it. Someone else could have easily solved it; he had better things to do.

But there _were _no better things to do, John informed Sherlock at the time with a small smile. And Sherlock had to agree with John on that, so he finally accepted the case. The night he did he surprised the other greatly by storming around the flat, complaining in a loud voice that people really were idiots and why couldn't they solve their own petty problems without bothering him?

He was unable to explain why he was frustrated; for once in his life he just _was_.

John was seated in his chair with a cup of tea, watching it unfold before him while he tried to calm the other man down. There wasn't any reason to act like this, he reasoned, it was just a case. They'd move on to bigger and better things soon enough, once he got some public attention. People would come streaming in, like they used to. Of course, Sherlock waved him off and muttered something about how John didn't understand.

That annoyed him greatly, and he drew himself up out of his seat and started shouting at Sherlock, because he figured the stubborn dick might actually listen to him if he did.

It _started_ out with shouting. Somehow, it _ended_ with a hasty, messy kiss.

"Shit." John had pulled away from the kiss - actually he couldn't consider it one, no way in hell - with that one word and had immediately averted his eyes as soon as he said it. The room swam in front of his eyes, and he found it impossible to stay there where that accident had happened.

"I-I'm turning in for the night. G'night. Oh, and I think you should hold off on the call to the girl's family until the morning. Much too late now." Sherlock nodded slowly, his head tilted as he regarded the clearly flustered John, but he made no actual comments. As John headed up to his room, he could hear Sherlock laying out the details from the case in a low, steady voice, as if nothing had happened.

John groaned to himself and crawled into his bed and under the cold linen sheets, only letting sleep find him after he'd scolded himself several times. If you'd asked him that night, he wouldn't have been able to explain why he'd done it or what his thoughts had been the whole time. They were probably just a muddled mess anyways, and no good to anyone.

He'd sleep them off he decided, those thoughts, and he'd make no mention of the whole thing in the morning. He'd just grab Sherlock's hand again and find the pulse that now meant an incredible amount to him, if he'd let him.

* * *

><p>Sherlock stayed in the living room of the flat for a while longer, putting all of his attention to the case at hand until he was positive John was asleep. Then he fell back against the couch with a loud moan of frustration and pressed the heels of his palms to his closed eyes.<p>

That particular turn of events had been unexpected, although now he supposed he should have read it in John's eyes or even his body language. It had been too sudden though, and over much too fast for him to take it in and process it.

"John," he said softly to absolutely no one, pulling his hands away. Slowly he opened his eyes and blinked away the lights that danced before him as he looked around the dim room. His left hand slowly dragged along his buttoned shirt and moved up to his chest, where he held it over his heart, feeling it beat under the layers of clothing and skin. It thrummed beneath his fingers, still very much alive.

He stayed alive. And he had a very good reason to have done it.

John had become his reason.

God, he wanted to admit that, but it wasn't the right time. And until it was he'd _stay_ very much alive for John so eventually…he'd understand why he'd done it all.

* * *

><p>In the morning things started to turn around for both of them and the case suddenly looked very interesting indeed. It began with Mrs. Hudson at the door of their flat, shouting for the two of them with the loudest voice she could possibly muster. Sherlock and even John could recognize the terror that rang in her voice. So it was something serious, Sherlock thought with a thrill running through him.<p>

He felt excited by what the possibilities could be, so he settled back in his seat to wait while John ran down the stairs to let her in. He carefully led her up the steps and proffered a chair to her, which she promptly collapsed into. John said something about making tea for her and disappeared into the kitchen as Sherlock leaned forward to impatiently demand answers.

John walked back into the living room to wait for the water to boil just as they were furiously exchanging words.

"-came back in the morning. Just got the call, you see. Mary was sharing the latest on Mrs. Goddard's mother, and then there was the phone, ringing. Oh, it was a right shock when I heard about it! Mary left, she promised to return later…"

"Yes, Mrs. Hudson that's very nice, please, stay focused. The fact that the girl returned ruins the whole case! Well, I suppose not. There was nobody involved, yes? She did it on her own, I know it."

"No dear…Well, she said she went off to think about things but…there was a piece of paper…she had a note with her. She won't talk to anyone about it, she claims it's unimportant and that she isn't sure how she got it, but it exists."

That new information made Sherlock sit back in his seat and gesture for John to take his own. He pressed his fingertips together and considered it.

"Was it a suicidal note? Perhaps she went off to die…people do, sometimes. But then she had second thoughts and stopped. Maybe it was the thought of leaving her boyfriend…? The one that was mentioned by her mother, you know. John, you rang him up."

The way Sherlock talked about suicidal people and how they thought made John wince in remembrance. _Sherlock _hadn't had second thoughts about what he was about to do on that day three years ago, clearly he understood what had to be done from the start…And even if he hadn't been suicidal, it had looked like it. It had been so convincing, John didn't think all of it had been faked.

Sherlock noticed how uncomfortable John looked as he continued talking, of course, and he realized his own mistake too late to do anything about it, so he was forced to forge on, trying to make sense of the new details. Mrs. Hudson went on, oblivious to the unexplained hurt in the room. That or she chose to ignore it.

"It was just a note, dear. A grocery list, actually. But there was something odd about it…"

"What? It contained secret information or the like? Fascinating, Mrs. Hudson!"

Now he was being sarcastic because she wasn't being direct with him. Typical.

"Yeah, what?"

And John was interested now, so he barged into the conversation. He knew Sherlock was excited by this, by the possibility that the case was more interesting than they'd originally thought. But nothing could have prepared him or even Sherlock for what Mrs. Hudson said next after taking a deep, shuddering breath.

"The grocery list…it was your name that was on the paper, dear. As a part of the list."

That threw them off greatly, and they were left to look at each other in surprise. Then John, finding that Mrs. Hudson had no more information for Sherlock to glean from her, talked to her and sent her off with some instructions, which mostly involved sitting down with a proper cuppa and not worrying about the two of them. They'd be fine. Meanwhile Sherlock's mind was off, racing to find an explanation.

When it was just the two of them again, John bustled around the flat in an attempt to hide his underlying worry while Sherlock remained in his seat, lost in thought yet completely aware of what John was doing. He eventually found himself on his feet and making his way to John, who stopped what he was doing upon Sherlock's approach and looked at him uncertainly.

Sherlock's expression was unreadable, so John hesitated in what he wanted to do. What he needed to do.

Then he sighed heavily and reached for Sherlock's hand in a manner that was already familiar to both of them. He hooked his hand under Sherlock's, palm to palm, and pressed his thumb to the other's wrist, making sure he could feel that steady pulse. Sherlock didn't respond for a moment and kept his fingers loose around John's; the period of time was long enough that John started to worry that he'd been too sudden, especially after last night, and he started to pull away. The instant he did though, the fingers around his tightened and his hand was squeezed gently.

"Don't let go," Sherlock murmured softly, almost unintelligibly.

John nodded slowly, unsure if he should because that would be acknowledging something he wasn't sure Sherlock wanted acknowledged, and said nothing as they stood there for some time, in total silence. Sherlock cleared his throat awkwardly and finally spoke, his voice low as he turned to look at John.

"What do you make of the current situation?" he asked, raising an eyebrow. John considered the question.

"I'm sure you've got it all mapped out by now, the whole thing, do you really need my opinion on this?" he asked, although he was willing to offer his two cents if only Sherlock asked. Sherlock gave him a brisk nod.

"Of course. You are my doctor, my blogger, and my friend. I think by now your opinion would be highly valued." There was pressure on John's hand again, and he couldn't resist returning the pressure with a squeeze of his own. He didn't meet Sherlock's penetrating gaze though. That wasn't something he felt ready for.

"Alright then. The girl who disappeared, her name was Anna …hmm, she was a 'good girl,' if you want to put it like that. She had a good job at a local restaurant and was starting a successful, steady relationship with her boyfriend of three months. She was young, just twenty two, and she had a pet cat." He looked at Sherlock with a questioning glance. "Good start?"

"Why mention the cat?" was his only question and John shrugged at it.

"I dunno, you had me call up the girl's boyfriend. He told me she loved her pet, and he knew her well enough by that point to say that she wouldn't just leave it there with the poor bloke. But she did, which was odd. I figured it was worth mentioning." Sherlock nodded at this insight and closed his eyes.

"Possibly. Go on. It's good to have another mind put the facts forward." John nodded, although he knew Sherlock wasn't looking at him anymore, and he continued, his voice wavering only slightly as he realized Sherlock still hadn't let go of his hand.

"She disappeared about one week ago, on Tuesday. It's Monday now, and it seems like she arrived back at home last night, Sunday. The peculiar bit about it was that there was no warning. She left with pretty much a purse full of miscellaneous items that you haven't even been able to figure out-" Sherlock scoffed at this but kept his eyes closed as John pressed on, ignoring the interruption "-and she left her cell phone on the bed. Another odd thing, since she was often texting. Uhm…" Sherlock took over the instant John paused.

"And it wasn't until Friday that her boyfriend bothered to look around, asking questions. He contacted her family - they live nearby - and they searched high and low, contacting all the people in their phone books. However, it was only yesterday that Mrs. Hudson _finally _brought the case to my attention, having heard of it through her amazing ability to _gab_." He sighed, evidently disappointed in the people for the slowness.

"Isn't it odd that her boyfriend waited that long, though? Three days, the idiot should have been worried sooner than that, especially with no note from her…" Sherlock tilted his head this way and that way, considering the idea although the notion had already passed through his mind.

"Yes, if they really were as attached as they seemed to be. People are quite good at faking those things, if there's something in it for one of them, or even both." John was puzzled by what Sherlock seemed to be suggesting.

"Faking. Right. Sounds oddly familiar," he said carefully. The only visible response from Sherlock was his eyes opening so that he could peer closely at John as he continued. There was a mental wince from him at the harsh sting of the words, but John couldn't tell. "Do you think it was all part of some ploy then? But for what?" Sherlock finally pulled away from John's grasp with a groan of frustration at John's lack of understanding; John's hand fell to his side where it hung there limply and he looked away to mask the sudden feeling of rejection.

"_Think_, John, you have a brain for just that task. Clearly, this has nothing to do with the girl, or her boyfriend, or even her family. It's _me_. Someone wants me. The note, weren't you listening to Mrs. Hudson? One of them might be _involved _in the task, but that's probably for monetary gain. Nothing of major importance." He put his hands to his head and shut his eyes tightly. "But how? I _destroyed _all the lines of Moriarty's web, there was nothing that would lead back to me. I couldn't possibly have missed a single detail; I spent the last three years making sure of that…"

John was busy trying to be angry at Sherlock for being an arse and insulting his intelligence as he often did, but the current of utter anxiety that ran through Sherlock's voice as he finished talking and suddenly threw himself into his seat left him speechless. This was new, this was something not very Sherlock-like. It was just like last night, when he'd been complaining. God damn it, was John going to have to learn about a whole new side to Sherlock that had developed over the years?

He _would _do that no questions asked, because he still cared about Sherlock, but he didn't know if he wanted to. He was pretty sure he wanted Sherlock as he was. As he had been.

"Sherlock." No response - the consulting detective had his legs drawn up to his face, which he'd pressed against his knees, his palms still pressed against the sides of his head as he tried to think. John reached out to touch him on the shoulder, just to see if he could get a response, but he pulled away at the last second, knowing full well Sherlock was not going to pay attention.

"Should I leave you to it then?" he asked, that sense of rejection welling up in him again.

Again, there was no noticeable or audible response. John sighed.

"That's a no then. Alright. I'll just g-" Sherlock's head jerked upwards and he looked at John, interrupting him abruptly.

"I _missed _something, and that's unacceptable. But do you know _why_ it is, John?" There was something off in his voice, something John couldn't identify at first, but when he thought he had it figured out it made his heartbeat speed up, because it was just another not Sherlock-like thing for him to grow accustomed to, possibly. There was something in the way he said the words that sounded like he was begging John to have the answer, to know it immediately. He almost sounded _scared_.

John was afraid he didn't know the answer though, but he gave it his best shot.

"You'd be devastated to find that you messed up. You have your bloody pride to worry about, that's for sure," he muttered, just loud enough for Sherlock to hear. Maybe those words weren't true, but John was still hurting and it found its way to the surface when he spoke right then, because he didn't visibly show it at all times. Sherlock was silent for a while and then he burst into a short, harsh round of laughter. When he stopped he looked at John and raised an eyebrow.

"You really think that? Even now?" He frowned as John forced himself to meet his gaze and think about the questions.

"I don't really know Sherlock. You tell me why. The thing is…I'm not sure if I understand you anymore. And I never did in the first place anyways…not fully at least. So, _you_ tell me." John made sure to keep his eyes locked with Sherlock's for a second before he deflated, seemingly from the inside out, and collapsed into his chair to wait for a response. The words were slow in coming, but eventually Sherlock found his tongue and spoke.

"It's unacceptable because…I am positive it puts you in danger again. Never mind me, I don't want to worry about your safety again," he confessed softly. As soon as he said that last sentence John flinched, his hands tightening on the armrest. Sherlock looked over his knees and blinked once or twice, trying to gauge his reaction. He'd missed the visible flinch, missed how his words had pierced John right where it hurt the most.

So the reaction he got wasn't what he'd hoped for. He must have worded it wrong, clearly. Damn it all to hell, he _still _didn't think about what he said. It was something he should have worked on. He'd had the _time _after all.

"Is that so?" John asked, his voice becoming ominously quiet and toneless. His tongue passed over his lips as he mulled over the words some more and Sherlock watched the small sighting of pink, the question almost flying over his head as he did. Somehow, he managed to catch the words and nod his head, a response forming in his mouth and miraculously making its way out of it.

"Yes. Is that…wrong?" John shook his head, his lips in a thin line of a smile.

"No no. It makes sense now. You don't want to worry about me. I suppose that would be hindering to your thought process." Sherlock's eyebrows furrowed and his frown widened.

"That's not what I was getting at, and you know that perfectly well." Sherlock was being stubborn, refusing to just open up and attempt to explain what he really thought, because he wanted John to prove himself, and that's where he messed up.

John took a deep breath and stood up, taking a few steps forward so he loomed over Sherlock, who stayed in his seat and dared to look up at the other man, just to read the emotions flashing across his face. His heart beat was racing but he didn't notice.

_Anger_, first and foremost. There was so much of it, some of which had already been there but which was now coupled with this new, horribly fascinating anger. Sherlock was horrified with himself for how intriguing he was finding it.

_Hurt_, from the words Sherlock had said and from everything he was obviously holding back. Sherlock was going to _fix_ it though, he wanted to try; they'd already made that promise on day one of his return, so why was it not working yet?

_Sadness_, which Sherlock knew he had caused, knew that this had been his entire fault.

_Confusion_, when all Sherlock really wanted was for him to understand.

He was interrupted in his observations by John speaking, all the emotions coming to the front of the line, evident in his voice as he struggled not to yell. Sherlock slid his feet forward and off of the chair so that he could lean forward, getting closer to John.

"You…bloody…_git_. I _don't _know that," John hissed. He leaned down and grabbed a hold of the front of Sherlock's shirt and drew him closer. Now they were face to face, with John leaning in and Sherlock allowing himself to be pulled as close as John wanted. His breathing sped up slightly, and he half hoped John wouldn't notice, although it was impossible with them being so _close_.

"I cannot possibly bring myself to explain right now. You'll have to wait," he started, lying through his teeth. "You know I have a case to solve." John huffed once, closed his eyes tightly, and shook his head slowly, still resisting the urge to yell or even punch Sherlock right across the face. He deserved it though.

Sherlock was appalled at how open John had left himself; he _could _kiss him again, if he wanted to. If he leaned in just a little their lips would touch, and he could take John's hand off his shirt, he could stand up, they could continue right then and there, and it would be beautiful. It would be an entirely _new _experience for Sherlock. And he did want that, which was why it was so horrifying that John had unknowingly done this to him, brought this torture upon Sherlock.

"I should have seen that coming," John eventually muttered, letting go of Sherlock's shirt and straightening up. He glared at Sherlock for a second and then headed in the direction of his room, calling out a farewell as he went. The consulting detective fell back against his seat, still breathing hard as he realized all of the sadness, hurt, and confusion had replaced all of the anger in John's next three words.

"Good night, Sherlock."

And Sherlock could only watch, only force himself to stay in his seat and not sweep John up in his arms, because that's not what _he did as Sherlock Holmes_. Instead he pressed two fingers to his lips as if a kiss really had been placed there and he had been stunned by it while John waited for something, anything, to be said. When there was nothing, he sighed and retired for the night.

Sherlock eventually recovered and was left with only his own tormented thoughts.


	2. Chapter 2

John had a nightmare that night.

That in itself was not unusual, because nightmares were familiar to him; they were just a part of his life and they'd only increased in frequency after Sherlock's sudden 'death'. But this nightmare was new. Whereas his previous ones were just replays and modifications from the day Sherlock jumped or – rarely - war nightmares from before he met Sherlock, this one was more attuned to the present.

He found himself in the flat at the door of Sherlock's bedroom, and there was an empty feeling to the air. It made him feel sick to the stomach, that emptiness, but he couldn't explain it nor would he attempt to. It seemed almost like the air was tinged with a terrible darkness though, something metallic like the taste of blood, sticking to the roof of his mouth. It was a disgusting taste.

Something was missing though, and he could already tell what it was. Somewhere deep inside, he just could. And it scared him far too much; the fear clawed at his soul but he managed to get the door open anyways, his palms slick with sweat as he fumbled for the door knob.

Inside was the absolute worst thing he could have imagined for himself.

There was Sherlock splayed across the bed with his limbs tangled up in the white sheets, and the sight confused John at first. The flat was empty and something was still missing, he'd already established this with himself. But Sherlock, the only thing John would have missed, was right there, sleeping. Or was he?

John lurched forward with a choked gasp, climbing onto the bed without uttering a word of warning to the other man and he sat beside Sherlock, reaching for his hand. Grasping it firmly, he gasped out loud at how cold to the touch Sherlock's skin was. Lifeless even.

"_Sherlock?_" he choked out, his fingers instantly moving to the slender wrist while his heart leaped to his throat. Breathing suddenly became very difficult as he searched for the pulse he'd been holding onto for the past few weeks.

No pulse.

The man lying before him really was lifeless.

"Oh God, no…" John started and stopped, and the words began dying before he'd even thought them up. He pulled his hand away from Sherlock's and sat there, shocked.

This was his nightmare though, so anything was possible. Even the dead could speak.

"John…" The voice was Sherlock's, but it wasn't coming from his mouth. No, he was dead, really and truly. This was his mind talking to him, just taking Sherlock's voice and putting it everywhere and nowhere, resonating in his ears and making him jerk his head up to look, actually look, at Sherlock's face.

There was blood on the side of his face, similar to when he'd taken that fall, and John reprimanded himself. How had he not noticed it before? It was fresh, glistening and plastering curls of hair to his face, using crimson to bring black curls and white face together in a macabre mix.

John's breath hitched as he focused on Sherlock's eyes; they were wide open, staring at nothing. He was caught in the emptiness and at how little depth those eyes now held.

Then there was that voice again, and John realized now there was no inflection in it, none of that familiar deep baritone that he was used to; even so, the words still managed to get to him.

"Goodbye again, John." The words rang in his ears and he grasped Sherlock by the shoulders and shook him, screaming meaningless words, when the empty eyes before him slid shut and he suddenly-

-woke up with a loud shout, back in his bed.

His face was wet; he noticed that first and furiously wiped away the tears, because that's exactly what they were. He had somehow gotten tangled in the sheets of his bed, with only half of his body covered by them. There was a sudden, constant ringing noise in his ears, and it took him a moment to identify it as his phone.

_But Sherlock. _

_He had to see Sherlock. The nightmare had been so vividly _real_. _

The phone _demanded_ his attention though and he nearly fell off of his bed as he tried to get to his dresser. He ended up awkwardly clambering off and half crawling, half running across the floor to snatch the ringing device up. The sheets were still wrapped around his ankles but he ignored them, simply pressing the correct button and holding the phone up to his ear without even checking the number.

_It's too damn late, who'd be calling? It better not be Harry, drunk off her arse again…_

"Hello?" he whispered into the speaker, even though no one was around for him to even need to do that.

"Dr. John Watson, it's a pleasure. For me at least. I hope you had a good night's sleep. Or rather, scratch that, it doesn't matter, since I'm pretty sure where you're headed, sleep won't be necessary." The voice on the other end was unfamiliar to John, who narrowed his eyes and blinked away the last remnants of sleepiness. All he could identify was that it was a male speaker with a raspy, weathered voice.

"Sorry, who is this?" He wasn't scared; his heart was beating fast only because he was still desperate to get to Sherlock's room and check on him.

"Name's Moran. Sebastian Moran." The name didn't help John very much, and he figured the person knew that. But why was he just handing it out so easily, anyways? It made no sense.

"Okay, can't say pleased to meet you but…what do you want, or need, from me?" There was laughter on the end, with no hint of comedy in it.

"I need you to die, Dr. Watson. Along with your detective friend, Sherlock Holmes. It's to help someone out, someone I'm sure you're familiar with. It hasn't been that long, after all. Only three years since _his_ death." The man's voice went flat as he spoke, as if he was trying to hide some true emotion. John knew what he meant instantly. He was clearly referring to Moriarty, and the thought made John's heart skip a beat. Sherlock had reassured him that Moriarty really had died, but was it possible…?

"Moriarty? Why?" he asked softly, refusing to let any fear into his voice.

"I'm afraid that doesn't matter right now. You'll be seeing me around though. I've certainly been keeping an eye on you. I think you should be more concerned about someone else right now…he's in as much danger as you are." The person on the other end suddenly hung up with those threatening words, leaving John hanging.

He held the phone away from his ear and shuddered once. Then he gave a start and his thoughts all homed in on one thing: _Sherlock_. By the time he'd really thought about what he was doing, he'd flung the phone on his bed and was heading down the stairs to Sherlock's bedroom as swiftly as possible.

He burst into the living room of the flat and stumbled around in the dark for a moment or two. His steps were lighter now, although his heart was still beating loudly in his chest. Somehow finding his way in the darkness, he made it to the kitchen without falling. Then he hit his hip on the table and hissed in pain, immediately trying to stifle it and the low curses he uttered.

His eyes were wide open and staring into the darkness of his surroundings when he found the door to Sherlock's bedroom. He didn't hesitate in running in as soon as he had the door open and he called out into the darkness as he did.

"Sherlock?"

He figured Sherlock would have woken up at all the noise he'd made and would be sitting up in bed, just waiting with a quirked eyebrow for him. It seemed appropriate. But there was no response.

Nothing. John barely registered the shiver that ran down his spine, but it was there.

"_Sherlock_?" His voice was a little louder this time, a little more desperate.

There was still nothing and John shook his head. He couldn't have imagined it, Sherlock's return, he just couldn't have. But where had Sherlock gone? He could have left him, it was incredibly possible. Why should the brilliant Sherlock Holmes remain with ordinary John Watson? Feeling lightheaded he found the light switch and flicked it on. Yes, there was nobody in the bed or in the room. It was just John.

He walked back into the kitchen, half hoping Sherlock had fallen asleep on the couch and he'd passed over him on his mad dash for his room. Sherlock sometimes did that when he was on the case, and John clung to that new hope as he searched for the next light switch.

_Click_. His hopes were quickly dashed.

And now John really registered the next shiver that ran through his body. It made his knees grow weak and he stumbled forward a bit, almost falling to the ground on his hands and knees. Instead of falling though, he put all of his energy into making it back to Sherlock's room. Once back inside with the light still on, he climbed onto Sherlock's bed.

It was eerily familiar to the nightmare, when he'd climbed in to sit next to Sherlock's dead body. But this time, there wasn't even that. There was simply nothing. That in itself was so much worse.

John didn't care that this was Sherlock's bed that he was invading without asking, that Sherlock would probably be mad if he ever did return. He didn't care. Sherlock wasn't here and this was the next best thing for his frayed nerves. He needed to _feel _the thrum of Sherlock's heart because even now, he wasn't sure of what was real and what wasn't. He was the final proof that John would always need. But he wasn't _here _and John felt lost.

To top it all off, they were in danger from some unknown outside threat, and John hadn't warned him, and he was _scared. _Because Sherlock was out there, more likely than not, and it was all too possible that John wouldn't see him again. But he couldn't do anything for fear of messing something up, so John simply clung to the sheets on Sherlock's bed, waiting for him to come back, if he ever did.

It was only sleep that freed him, and even that was only temporary. At least there were no more nightmares for the night.

* * *

><p>Sherlock <em>did <em>leave the flat, shortly after John had departed from the room, even. But he had had no intention of leaving permanently or anything of the sort. He just wanted to get out, and he thought John would have heard his departure if he'd been awake and listening. Even if that was not the case, he figured it wouldn't end up being much of a problem because John would go to sleep and he knew he'd be back before he woke up, most assuredly.

After all, his thoughts had gone astray and he couldn't concentrate on picking them up again while at the flat. Hence, his swift departure. Now, out in the open with his phone in his pocket and his old scarf wrapped around his neck, he could.

He had priorities; he knew what they were and could identify them – when he was on the case, little else came before solving it, because that was one of his priorities. Such was the way he lived his life, and it had worked for the longest time, even when John had shown up in his life. Things didn't change then, either.

But then Moriarty decided to turn his world upside down, and Sherlock had to die.

He went willingly enough, no doubt about it, knowing that the people he had finally chosen to care about would be safe. He could come back too, but it would be painful, the waiting. He had been determined at the time to not let it get to him though.

What he hadn't expected was for dying to throw things into such a new perspective. Because very shortly after he'd passed into the beyond and technically no longer a part of the world, he realized he was _pining _after John; there was no better word for it.

He rejected it at first, of course. He knew he needed John, they'd somehow managed to help each other, but he couldn't have wanted him _that _badly. He couldn't have him anyways, not like that, not at the time. He had other things to do.

But for three years he let those thoughts run rampant in his mind, and the feeling only grew as time went on. He chalked it up to him missing John, as most people would miss a friend. John was his one and only closest friend, so his reasoning made sense. But three years was far too long to think about one person and a life that had only lasted eighteen months with that person, and not work out something.

Grudgingly, Sherlock eventually identified his feelings as something akin to love, but not quite. He didn't want to think of it like that, not yet. Sherlock Holmes wasn't going to be brought to love by just one man, not so easily. John could do it though.

That only made things difficult, because waiting became that much harder to do. He made it though, and now he knew now that John needed him just as much as he himself needed the other. Maybe it wasn't in the same way, but Sherlock could last a little longer while he helped it along.

And what he'd said earlier, about not wanting to be concerned for John's safety…He'd meant it. It hadn't sounded right, of course, and he knew that now, but what he really meant was he didn't want John to ever be in danger again. That was impossible so long as he stuck with Sherlock though, and this threw the brilliant detective into an inner turmoil.

_Of course if I left, John would follow for as long as I let him. And I would let him follow me to the ends of the earth, no doubt about it. Is that wrong though, because it would put him in a considerable amount of danger? I don't think he'd care. And even if it was wrong, would that matter? I've never cared for being right, not in that sense. _

He laughed softly to himself at his thoughts, looking up at the night sky as he did. It was going to rain soon; he'd checked his phone for the weather forecast as a simple means of distracting himself. And there it was, not a moment too soon - the first drop fell on his nose while he looked.

He let the rain work itself into a fully fledged downpour before even considering the thought of heading back to the flat. Once he had thought about it, he decided John would chastise him if he went and got sick because of the rain, so he quickly turned on his heels and began walking back in the right direction.

He'd worked out what he wanted to originally and was satisfied for the moment. Now, with his confirmed beliefs lodged firmly in the back of his mind, he felt perfectly capable of taking on the case once more and attacking it completely, making sure no physical harm came to John. That would be devastating and would prove dangerous for anyone in Sherlock's way afterwards; he could easily admit that to himself.

But would he admit that to John? Not at the moment, no, because he wasn't sure how the other man would react to such a confession. So he'd carefully tuck it away and all thoughts that accompanied it.

The flat was silent, thankfully, when he finally made it back with hair and clothes dripping wet. He had secretly worried that he'd find John sitting on the couch just waiting for an explanation because he himself had jumped to the wrong conclusion about where Sherlock had gone, upon somehow finding out he'd run off. It was no small sigh of relief that he breathed upon not finding that true.

However, he was _completely _taken aback to find John curled up on his bed, asleep. This wasn't how he'd left the flat, and it confused him for a good, long minute. He had removed his damp coat and slung it over his arm, waiting to prop it up on a chair in his room, but he kept it perched there as he leaned against the doorway, simply looking now.

The light was still on; John must have fallen asleep and forgotten to turn it off. So he was still tired when he came down to Sherlock's room. Sherlock gave a little start while running a hand through his hair, shaking out some of the water – _John_ was in his room, and Sherlock obviously hadn't been there when he had gone down there. Past experience meant this was bad.

And now he had options, an incredible amount of options. He could wake up John and send him back to his room, listening all the while to his mumbled apologies, of which there would be many. Or he could take his place on the couch, secluding himself to avoid possible later conversations that would prove uncomfortable if he took the bed, and he knew he would end up regretting that decision for the rest of the night. Even then, there would be more apologies from John in the morning for taking his bed and so on. Sherlock simply didn't have the patience to listen to them all, even if it was John.

There did remain one last option. He could get in the bed also; he could give in to what his body wanted for the feeling of it and what his mind now craved for the fulfillment of it and he could fall asleep near John. If he was even more daring he could take his arms and wrap them around John's sleeping form in what he hoped would be a comforting manner. Because why else would John have gone to his room, if not for some form of comfort which Sherlock might have been able to provide? He had become distressed about something, and Sherlock hadn't helped it by running off to chase his own thoughts across London.

He'd promised not to do that, too. That brought about a familiar feeling of guilt.

But now he had to make a decision. He had his options, he knew what he wanted, and he vaguely understood the current situation between John and himself and where they stood. That was something he was still working out though. However, putting it in the perspective of what he wanted, selfishly or otherwise, Sherlock allowed himself a small smile, still leaning up against that doorway.

The choice was fairly obvious when put in that light. He took immediate action.


	3. Chapter 3

There was an arm wrapped around John and someone's body was pressed against him when he woke up; at first, he could not for the life of him understand how this had happened. It wasn't a bad feeling in any way at all - John felt warm and secure with the arm wrapped tightly around him, unconsciously pulling him close. And of course, as he woke up further, he realized the person could only be _one _person, but he knew he wasn't going to question it. He didn't want to.

Instead he felt a huge sense of relief because he'd returned. Sherlock had returned. For some reason, he'd doubted it. There were other reasons besides John that would keep Sherlock there at the flat; he should have known that and accepted it, even. Now he did, but it still made him feel hugely relieved to know that Sherlock was there, next to _him_. It meant he was a reason.

And they were both alive still, thankfully so alive, and John had never felt as alive as he did right then and there. The warmth he could feel was just one of those signs of life he needed. It was completely contradicting to his nightmare from last night, and he wanted that contradiction.

He sighed softly, just a little sigh of utter content, and then he flinched as he felt Sherlock shift a little; his own eyes widened as he lay there in terrified silence. He had no idea what he'd do if Sherlock woke up; he'd be petrified, because he really shouldn't have been there in the first place. However, there must have been some part of Sherlock that didn't mind and wanted to be there with him…

He couldn't even see the other man's face - his back was against Sherlock's front - so Sherlock could have been awake for all he knew. But it didn't _seem_ like he was awake, and suddenly John had the rabid need to see his face. It wasn't exactly something he could ignore, so he went with it.

He slowed his breathing first by a considerable amount as he tried not to panic. This whole thing - the position they were in and the fact that personal space had never been so violated as it was being right now - should have been incredibly awkward and uncomfortable for him but it actually felt quite alright, being there. This was unreasonably fine and it was pretty much perfect; it was also far more reassuring than anything else Sherlock had done for him in the last couple of weeks.

John paused as Sherlock shifted again and he gulped, trying to swallow his own anticipation and fear by pushing it back down to some place where it couldn't return. His heartbeat sped up immediately again, as much as he wanted that to have not happened, and for a moment he faltered. But finally he managed to get his body facing the other way through a series of careful maneuvers and managed not to remove himself from Sherlock's hold while also not waking up the other man. Or so he thought.

He actually had to pause at this point and breathe out slowly upon turning and suddenly seeing Sherlock's face right by his. _Oh_. The light was still on overhead and although it was harsher than natural light, it didn't stop John's viewing every detail of the other man's sleeping face.

He'd never been this close up before, but it was incredible. Sherlock's eyes were shut, and his eyelashes were oddly noticeable; John almost felt like he could count them all, if was allowed the time. The other man's face was free of age and worry lines while asleep, his features softened a bit, and John couldn't help but think it was a God damned beautiful sight. Pink cupid bow lips, parted slightly, only added to the effect and John sighed softly.

Maybe he really could admit defeat to that one pressing, nagging question that was always at the back of his mind, with all of this proof in front of him. No, that wasn't right, he already had, and this was just him acknowledging it to himself, finally, in his mind. Soon enough he'd make it to the next part, where he said it.

_Did he love this man? _

_Yes, maybe he hadn't at first, but he did now. He never said it, and it was probably better he hadn't done so. Now he could. _

Even so, he wondered whether or not Sherlock did, or even would, reciprocate the feelings.

John smiled to himself now, because he supposed it didn't matter; he'd accept what Sherlock gave him, which was a hell of a lot more than what other people got, he'd tell you that with pride. Rejection, however, would kill, he thought with a start. That was something he was certain about.

His smiled disappeared as he carefully ran his hand along Sherlock's arm, which was clothed, thankfully, and he eventually snagged the other man's wrist with one hand. This grabbing-Sherlock's-wrist-thing was just a routine for the two of them; if Sherlock woke up, he wouldn't find a problem with it. John hoped so at least. The hand he'd grabbed a hold of was the one Sherlock had slept on, wedged in between the two of them, so it was warm to John. The doctor in him sighed again upon finding the pulse in his wrist, but it was a sigh of relief.

In fact, his life seemed to be composed of sighs nowadays. It happened, he supposed.

_Thank God, _he thought. _Now would probably be a good time to get u-_

As if clueing in on John's thoughts and his intentions, a small, devious smiled formed on Sherlock's previously sleeping face and his eyelids slid apart to peer closely at John, who flinched and immediately let go of his wrist. John was very suddenly unsure of where he could put his hands because no place seemed safe, but he eventually deemed the top of his leg safe enough, although he realized with a start that he had to place it over the arm Sherlock had wrapped around him.

"This is quite the…predicament we've found ourselves in," Sherlock murmured, amused with himself from the sound of it. John was stunned for a moment but he managed not to look like an utter fool after choking out a few stammered words.

"I…I…you think? Sherlock, where the hell were you last night?" John demanded, suddenly on the offensive to hide the fact that he was nervous. Sherlock shrugged a little, his thin shoulders moving up and down once, and John watched the movement in slight fascination before forcing himself to meet the other man's eyes again.

"I had to think. The better question is, as I'm sure you know - why were you in my bed?" He wasn't accusing John of anything; he was just extremely curious. John flushed and the stammer returned abruptly and with no warning.

"I…you see…last night? Wait, last night! Sherlock!" His eyes widened and he automatically reached out and tightly gripped Sherlock's arm, remembering last night's events as he did. He skipped over the slight panic attack he'd had and focused on that haunting phone call.

"Yes, last night you were in my bed. And still are. What else about last night?"

"I received a phone call. On my cell." Sherlock quirked an eyebrow at this and smirked.

"That's what cell phones are for, typically. Anything particular about this late night phone call then?" John rolled his eyes but nodded, his frown returning as he recalled the details of the odd conversation.

"Right, right. And yes, it was a man. He made some threats. Death threats. He said he would have me killed. Wait. Sherlock, is it possible that Moriarty…survived?" Sherlock had tucked his chin in towards his chest while John spoke to listen with his eyes half-lidded, but he gave a start at the mention of Moriarty and death threats toward John, though externally he focused only on the Moriarty bit.

"What? No, that's not possible in any way. He pulled a gun out in front of me and took his life, simple as that. No one could have survived such a direct, purposeful move." He was a bit flustered by the thought, John could tell, but he shook his head slowly at him.

"That's what I thought about people who jump off of particularly high buildings," he said weakly. Sherlock sighed.

"Now that was different. You already know how I managed that. Moriarty is dead; I'm positive he didn't mind it anyways. He was _bored_." John scoffed at this, not believing the idea that a bored, sane person would do this at all.

"Most people don't go to such extremes when they're _bored_, Sherlock. I suppose you have a different idea of boredom and how to handle it though." The consulting detective scowled.

"Maybe, but Moriarty wasn't like _most people_. John, let's focus on this mysterious caller," he said, attempting to divert the now uncomfortable conversation somewhere else, because he didn't like the direction it was headed in. But John was being stubborn; he refused to let the conversation drop as easily as Sherlock was suggesting it should be.

"No. Sherlock, we both know you're not like most people too. Moriarty had a brilliant mind like you, albeit he was crazy so it didn't appear so brilliant. I don't think you're crazy but…what would you do to get rid of your boredom? I've already seen examples…So would you do something like that? Die, because the world was boring you?" Sherlock was silent for a long time, closing his eyes as he thought.

"Sherlock…" John started softly when he felt they'd been lying there for far longer than would be considered appropriate; he guessed he was ready to move on with the conversation if Sherlock wasn't going to give him an answer.

"Quiet." Sherlock's one word command was whispered but still just as effective on John, who shut up immediately. Finally, the man opened his eyes and cleared his throat, as if preparing for some speech.

"John…" he began, and then he paused, hesitating. "Once, I would have said yes; I'd rather have died than continue living, because the world was not satisfying me in any way. But that changed, for several reasons that I can share with you later, if you want to hear them. There is, without a doubt, no part of me that wants to die right now, at least not because of _boredom_."

He was so startlingly honest in what he said that John was left to mull over his words for some time, which Sherlock allowed because he had his own things to worry about. Then, when John had processed it and realized that Sherlock hinted that he had actually come close to giving up his life once, he looked at the other man and frowned. There were a thousand things he could have asked him, but it wasn't the right time.

"At least? So what _would _you die for?" he asked, his voice lowering to an unnecessary whisper. Sherlock flinched and looked away at the question, but his answer was quick, although awfully vague.

"There are things I have to protect, and I'd do anything to make sure they remain protected," he muttered, suddenly pulling his arm away from John's side, who made a small noise of complaint, entirely by accident. Sherlock ignored it entirely, turning to lie on his back and look up at the ceiling.

John took this sudden change in position as a cue for release and he sat up, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed to get up. Sherlock followed the movement with his eyes, his head tilted slightly in John's direction to look at his bare back none too discreetly. Just as John was standing up, he reached over and grabbed his hand, abruptly pulling him down. John sat back down with a huff and pulled free of Sherlock's grasp without looking at him.

"_Sherlock_. What do you want now?"

"I want you…to stay here. You have yet to tell me more about this mysterious caller of ours," Sherlock said, sheepishly withdrawing his hand and placing it at his side. He was mentally willing John to look at him, just give him another glance, but it wasn't working.

"We can talk over breakfast. Or better yet, over tea. I don't see why I have to stay _here_…" John mumbled, not daring to look over his shoulder at Sherlock. He licked his lips once while Sherlock considered.

"Well fine. I just thought…One moment, then." Sherlock's words confused John and he finally did look behind him, eyebrows raised in question. Sherlock had pulled himself up into a sitting position once he'd finished speaking and he immediately reached over and grabbed John by the shoulders when he turned, dragging him down onto his back.

"Sherlock!" John exclaimed, but he couldn't get up because Sherlock had pinned him down by his shoulders. He looked up in surprise at the face of the other man, who loomed over him suddenly with a small smile that was almost a smirk on his face.

"I thought that this was reassuring for you, me being here like this without even questioning why. Maybe this is a better idea, however; far more sudden, it might be just the thing…" His words were soft, thoughtful, and his smile had all but disappeared. Sherlock eased up with his grip on John's shoulders ever so slightly and he leaned down closer to John's face, appearing upside down to the other man, who choked a little on his breathing at the close proximity.

Sherlock seemed to take a moment to gather his thoughts, to regain his composure, and then he really did lean in all the way, pressing his lips to John's without any further hesitation. He nervously bumped his lips against John's nose before reaching his lips, and while that should have made it awkward, it really didn't. It gave John a moment to react and finally participate. This kiss was far more real than the accident that had happened, oh, _ages_ ago it felt like, John thought, but he didn't shy away from this one.

Sherlock was on his knees upon the bed, leaning over John to kiss him, who was on his back and currently losing his mind in the intensity of the brief moment. He would have questioned his own place in the circle of life if he'd been thinking about it at the time, but he wasn't because _Sherlock _was kissing him, he had moved his hands from John's shoulders to gently clasp his cheeks somewhere in the middle of it all, and thinking had all but stopped.

He remembered how to breathe but that was about it, and even that was quickly being passed over as Sherlock slowly ran his hands down his neck and over his shoulders, laying them flat against his collarbone. He managed to keep up the kiss the whole time, and John shuddered beneath him, acutely aware of the fingertips pressed against his skin. He reached for Sherlock's hands with his own and arched his neck, wanting to feel some semblance of participation on his part as he attempted to return the kiss.

And the moment Sherlock pulled away was beautifully terrible for John, who took his hands off of the other's to let him sit up reluctantly, while he opened his own eyes and craned his neck to look up at Sherlock. The consulting detective's eyes were still closed, but there was a faint smile on his face and he was flushed lightly, his lips parted just so, like they had been when John had observed him in his sleep.

One thought, and that one thought only, crossed John's mind several times in the span of a few seconds: _Let's do that again. _

Then Sherlock stood up on the bed, planted his feet firmly on the mattress, glanced at John once, and stepped off of the bed as if it was just a step ladder he'd been standing on. He cast no parting glance except for the one he'd just given and his only parting words were, "Tea sounds perfectly acceptable. You know how I take it." Then he was out the door without another word.

John was after him in less than a second, determined not to let this opportunity just slip by.

Sherlock made it to the threshold of the living room before John was upon him and grabbing his hand so that he'd turn around. John's tongue was moving faster than his mind and the words poured out before he actually thought about them.

"Christ, Sherlock don't you even _dare _leave me hanging…" He started out just fine, but there was a smug smile on Sherlock's face as he spoke, a slight pressure inflicted on his hand, and he stopped himself talking because of the question he read in Sherlock's eyes - really, John, why are you still talking? And in all actuality, the question made perfect sense; John wasted no time then in answering it by returning the kiss Sherlock had just given him, receiving an enthusiastic, if somewhat delayed, response.

He decided that he never wanted to expend another second of his life on talking to Sherlock if they could have _this_. Because he really, really, hoped this was permanent, that this would become a tangible, real thing for the two of them.

And he believed it was possible, up until there were suddenly hands on his chest, pushing him away, and gently murmured words in his ear: "Still waiting for tea, you know." Then lips were pressed to the shell of his ear and Sherlock was darting away even as John was reaching for him.

Now he was just teasing him. Oh, the bastard.

"No, I - _Sherlock_!" He groaned and followed Sherlock into the living room, watching as the other man laid himself across the couch, stretching as he did. He frowned at how casual Sherlock appeared to be.

"Tea?" Sherlock said, as if John needed the reminder, and he looked at John with an expectant expression.

"You can't seriously expect me to make some tea after you were bloody well _snogging _me?" Sherlock shrugged, his thin shoulders moving up and down once, swiftly.

"I can and I do. If you recall, we have things to discuss. Mysterious caller, death threats, a girl who disappeared and suddenly reappeared and who may or may not have a connection to far more dangerous things - do those not ring a bell with you?" Sherlock asked, his arms stretching out behind him as he did.

"Yes, they do, but they're not very important to me right now. No, the only thing on my mind right now is the fact that you just _kissed me_, alright?" Sherlock, who had finished stretching and had just relaxed into the couch, sighed heavily and sat up with a low groan. As he answered he stood up, advancing several feet closer to John, who stood his ground. Shaky ground though, it seemed to be.

"And the only thing on _my _mind that holds some form of importance to me is this case right here and now, among other things. Therefore, it looks like we've reached a standstill and neither of us seems to want to budge. So I will, for the one and only time in my life, I'm sure, graciously relent and give you what you want until you're satisfied, if only to ultimately satisfy myself in the end."

"That's not what I was sugg- mmph!" John was cut off abruptly by Sherlock, who had clasped his hands together behind his back and leaned in to kiss John once, tired of hearing him talk about what he had in mind and ready to get something done. John spluttered, pulling away from the kiss with a gasp of breath.

"_No_." Sherlock drew back in alarm at the word, keeping his hands behind his back.

"No?"

"Yes."

"Yes…no?"

"I _really_ think you should stop right there. I don't want you like _that_. Not…not yet."

"Fine then. On the matter of the kiss, no point in denying what it was, we'll get back to that in a second. I just can't satisfy you, can I?" Sherlock asked, scowling.

"Guess not. Sherlock, I don't think you can just walk around kissing me all of a sudden without some form of explanation. As much as I…enjoy it, it's a bit sudden," John said, flushing deeply as he spoke. Sherlock's eyes brightened at his confession and he looked excited for a moment, a small smile appearing on his face. He gestured towards the kitchen, raising an eyebrow at John.

"Right. I'd still prefer having tea to nothing, you know; if you'd rather not make it, we can still do what you'd like for now. That could be anything at all, really, so long as I eventually have my say at the end." John sighed, smiling and shaking his head.

"Always, you always have your say, no matter what _I _do. I'll make the damned tea, just sit down and don't move, okay?" Sherlock nodded first before responding, but John was already heading to the kitchen before he spoke after seeing the nod, so he just called out after him.

"Alright, alright. Hurry though." John must have nodded also, because Sherlock didn't hear him say anything in return as he headed back to the couch. He was smiling and looking mildly pleased with himself as he lay across the couch again on his back and scooted inwards a little so there was just about enough room for another person. He had an abundance of plans, and this was just the beginning of one of them.

"So here's the cuppa you seemed so keen on getting, and here's mine. Satisfied? Now, you're going to have to sit up you know," John said as he set Sherlock's cup down on the table by the couch. Sherlock looked up at him but said nothing, only speaking when John turned to make his way over to his own seat.

"Stop, come over here. Put your own cup down as well." John paused mid-step and carefully set his foot down, putting a hand around the edge of his cup to prevent any possible spill. He turned around slightly and looked at Sherlock, confused.

"What? My chair's right there, Sh-" Sherlock waved at him to be silent, his eyebrows furrowing and his frown returning at John's general uncooperativeness.

"I know. Come here anyways." John was silent for a moment, turning around again so his back was to Sherlock's as he considered what the other man could possibly be planning. He weighed his options, sighed, and relented fully, turning once more to set his cup down and stand over Sherlock, who looked up at him with a somewhat hopeful expression.

"Yes, Sherlock?" John asked, eyebrow raised. Sherlock shrugged.

"I said come here, not stand next to me. Can't you hear?" he retorted, his tone derisive. John stared at him blankly for a moment, not taking offense because it was Sherlock, and then the pieces clicked together instantaneously. Sherlock watched in slight fascination and slight impatience as it happened, and John flushed.

"Are you saying I should, what, join you on the couch?" John asked, the disbelief evident in his voice, and Sherlock nodded quickly, excitedly.

"Yes, what else could I be suggesting? Just listen for once, catch on, and get on with it," Sherlock said, none too gently. John's flush deepened but he nodded, cursing the fact that he'd forgotten to grab a shirt. Sherlock was half naked too - why hadn't he snagged himself a shirt while he waited for John? - which made it even more embarrassing, John thought, since they hadn't really _established _anything as of yet.

But Sherlock was _asking _him; he couldn't just refuse him, now could he?

Sherlock had flung his left arm out at some point in their conversation, leaving his side open for John to take his place at. It turned out it was easy to do just that; John started out hesitantly and pressed one knee to the couch. Then he caved in to what he wanted, lying down alongside Sherlock with his face pressed to the base of the other man's neck.

Sherlock wrapped his left arm around John immediately, carefully tangling his legs with the other man's and moving slowly to prevent John from suddenly freaking out, which was exactly what he _didn't _want to happen, believe it or not. He let out a soft sigh of relief that his plan had worked, and then John was half lying down on top of him, probably blushing furiously, although he couldn't see his face.

"That's that," Sherlock said with a small smirk. "Now, I have you where I fully intended for you to be, and we can continue with whatever it is you want, after I get out what I think needs to be said." John looked up in surprise and, Sherlock noted with satisfaction, a flushed face. He was still embarrassed then, for whatever reason. Well, he'd do something about that, if he could.

"You didn't even want the tea, did you?" John managed, frowning in spite of the flush and his obvious embarrassment.

"That's beside the point. I think you yourself needed to make it anyways, in order to calm yourself down. Now, take your ear, put it against my chest. Tell me, what do you hear?" John rolled his eyes at Sherlock's assumption that tea helped calm him (which it did, at times), and, feeling foolish, obeyed his orders.

"Why," John started in mock surprise, "I can hear your heartbeat. Would you look at that?" There was a smile in his voice, but Sherlock scoffed anyways and ran a hand down John's back, curious for a reaction. And he got one - John flinched and shivered once, though it was barely noticeable.

"That's hardly surprising. But my point is, I came home and found you in my room, while you should have been in yours. There had to have been a reason, and I quickly worked it out." John kept his ear to Sherlock's chest, the fingers of his left hand unconsciously tapping out the rhythm while he had it wrapped around Sherlock's side.

"Oh really? Tell me what you worked out then." John asked; his words were suddenly low and almost sleepy because even though he'd fallen asleep in Sherlock's bed, it hadn't been for a good while, and he was still kind of tired. However, it was just proof that John was growing more comfortable by the second, his body relaxing even further against Sherlock's, and that in itself was a huge relief for both of them.

"You at some point decided that you needed to determine my own well being and continued existence by checking my pulse at odd intervals during the day. I didn't mind, don't be embarrassed by it," Sherlock added right after, for John had looked up at him in surprise. "Anyways, I knew you needed that reassurance, along with the fact that I was staying put, and I was all too keen to offer it, because I didn't want you to...think for even a second that I was going to leave. That I'd even died." His voice wavered slightly as he spoke, completely by accident but John noticed, and Sherlock paused to recollect his thoughts.

"Sherlock…" John tried to interject, but then there was a finger pressed to his lips that was not his own and he quieted instantly.

"Not even close to being done. Now, I realized this and endeavored to make sure you got no hint of me stopping you from your own fairly obvious efforts. It worked gloriously for the first few weeks. And then last night, after our quarrel, I had to slip out for reasons of my own. I didn't think you would wake up, or that anything would come of it. But, I was wrong, which happens far too often now for my own liking. Thus I found you asleep, lights on, curled up in an almost fetal position. The conclusion was easy enough: you'd gone to me for that now familiar reassurance, because something had happened. But what you told me earlier, about the mysterious caller and the death threats, it couldn't have been that. Not all of it, at least." Sherlock stopped talking for a moment, to let it sink in, and he ran his hand up to the back of John's neck, sighing softly.

"No…it wasn't that at all. You're John Watson, the army doctor who's been to hell and back, who watched good men die, who accepted Sherlock Holmes back though he really didn't have to because that man didn't deserve it, and he wouldn't have been scared of _death threats _to himself. I don't believe that at all." He tilted his head back against the headrest and sighed, placing a hand against his forehead. John looked up, saw the other man's outstretched neck presented to him in an enticing manner, and looked back down, his eyes wide.

"What do you believe then?" John asked in a whisper, eager to hear but almost scared to.

"Mm, that's the thing. I believe it's me, I'm the answer to it all. If it wasn't that I had also been threatened with death by our dear, mysterious caller, then…Well. Do you still experience nightmares, John?" Sherlock suddenly asked, tilting his head forward as he did to catch a look at John's face. John snapped his head up and stared wide eyed at Sherlock when he asked him the question.

"What? I…yes, I do. They haven't been so bad you know, not since you came back. But last night…" he trailed off, not eager to go into details about last night; Sherlock caught what he was hinting at, however, and nodded once.

"There we go. And that's the final piece. You had a nightmare. Oh, it must have been a bad one too, for you to go against all the little barriers you'd set up between the two of us and venture into my room in the hopes of finding me. Ah, and I definitely didn't help by disappearing. But now you see, I'm here, it's fine. I'm still alive." John shook his head slowly, his arms tightening around Sherlock for a moment.

"I know that _now_. But what do you mean by barriers?" Sherlock was silent for a long time, his hand tracing small paths along John's back while he thought, causing even more small shivers to run all along the other man's spine as he did.

"Barriers preventing something like this, don't you see? They're still there, but that's no matter of importance. I'll tear them all down, just to have you." Sherlock gave a small start at the bluntness of his own words, and he immediately wondered how John would take them.

"Yes, I suppose that's alright, if you want me," John mumbled, his words even slower to come. He was definitely falling asleep again, Sherlock realized. He didn't want that to happen, but he didn't want to make John get up either.

"If you'll have me," he murmured, stopping in all of his obvious efforts to touch John, because that didn't seem to help his sleepiness. John looked up when he stopped, a bit surprised but also with a wide smile across his face as he spoke. Sherlock noticed that his eyes were suddenly far more alert than he would have thought with how sleepy he had sounded a moment ago.

"Are we done flirting now, can we move on?" John asked bemusedly.

"What?" Sherlock asked, completely taken aback.

"Oh, you heard me," John said, still with that smile on his face, and he drew himself up a bit to finally give the kiss he'd been waiting to give, the one that really seemed to mean something to him. And thankfully, oh thank God, Sherlock returned it in full, his hand carefully returning to the back of John's neck to bring him that much closer, if at all possible.

When they pulled away and looked each other in the eye after that short kiss, it seemed all too right to go back in for another one. And maybe a few more fit in somewhere as well, all slow and filled with John's sleepiness and Sherlock's caution but still wonderful.

"Righty-o, seems we've gone beyond flirting. That was…amazing, just so you know," John said after the third or fourth kiss, when his cheeks were pink again, Sherlock's were as well, they were breathless at the sight of each other, and everything felt quite alright for the two of them. Sherlock actually laughed then, throwing his head back against the head rest once more.

"I didn't realize we'd even begun. It _was_ something else, yes. However…mysterious caller, remember? I've been far more patient than you know." John nodded, pressing his face to Sherlock's chest again since they'd stopped.

"I didn't think it was possible for you to not realize something of that magnitude. You're right though. There still remains that for discussion." Sherlock sighed at John's words, because he could already tell he was feeling sleep again, there was that familiar slowness to them. He must have dragged himself to awareness just to get a kiss and some form of satisfaction from Sherlock. It was obviously an effort remaining awake.

"Yes, so tell me, was anything else said?" he asked quickly, hoping to get as much information as he could before John fell asleep, which was inevitable, he knew. John was all too ready to provide, his eyes sliding shut as he pressed closer to Sherlock.

"He told me his name, which I found odd. Sebastian Moran. But that's probably the only helpful thing he said, if you can look him up. And he said he'd been watching me, probably meant you too. He also seemed to know who Moriarty was…" Sherlock nodded slowly at the new information; it didn't seem very helpful, but he'd have to make do. Then John very noticeably flinched at a memory and spoke again, his words coming out in a rush.

"Wait, Sherlock, he said something at the end. It was something along the lines of 'you should be more worried about your friend right now - he's in far more danger.' He must have _known _you were out, and I bet he wanted me to check," John finished in a breathless way, his voice hinting at worry.

"I suppose one could assume that, but I hardly think he'd have thought it would have such an effect on you. _If_ that was why he'd told you, of course. It's nothing to worry about, I'm sure." John's voice was filled with held back disbelief when he answered.

"If you say so, but there _are_ some people out there who understand _people _better than you, Sherlock. It's a man, a clever man like you that we're dealing with, but who likes playing with someone else's emotions instead, because that's what gets to most people, their emotions. That doesn't make you any less competent for the task of weeding him out, mind you," John added, and this time he really did trail off noticeably, his words fading away into small mumbles before stopping completely. At that point, Sherlock realized he'd actually fallen asleep. He frowned at John's words because they stung slightly, but they also rang true, he admitted to himself.

He sighed and put his hands against John's back; they weren't getting anywhere with the case today, he could already tell.


End file.
